Page 70 of Coming Home to Sturcombe Bay
Stepping out of the shower he scrubbed himself briskly dry, then pulled on a fresh pair of jeans and a T-shirt from the pile beside the tumble dryer, laced up a clean pair of trainers, and stuck his head round the sitting room door to say hi to his mum.
“Did Robyn go down all right?”
“She was as good as gold. I showed her the photos of the new foals. She wants to know their names.”
“I’ll tell her in the morning.”
She nodded. “Do you want something to eat?”
“No, thanks. I’m just going over to the hotel — I’ll get something there. I . . . need to talk to Annabel.”
“Okay, my luvver.” His mother’s voice conveyed nothing of what she was thinking, but he could guess. She was always ten jumps ahead of him. “Don’t be long. You hardly had any sleep last night.”
“No. We’re just going to have a quick drink. See you later.”
It was a pleasant evening, the warmth of the day lingering on the soft breeze blowing in from the sea. The moon was waning, a silver crescent lazing back against the inky sky amid a million stars. A perfect romantic evening.
But it wasn’t romance that he had on his mind. He couldn’t let this go on any longer. It wasn’t fair to Annabel just to let it drift until she left for her next photoshoot.
She was leaning on the reception desk chatting to Pete, the night manager, as he walked through the front doors. She glanced up with a warm smile. “Hi. I asked the kitchen to send something through for you.”
“Great — thank you. Coffee?”
“I’ll have a white wine please.”
As usual at this time of the evening the lounge was empty. They settled at a table in the corner and Pete brought their drinks over, and a few minutes later the young sous-chef came in with a tray. To Liam’s amusement he almost fell over his own feet as he gazed in open adoration at Annabel.
She smiled up at him warmly. “Thank you.”
He burbled something incoherent, blushing to the roots of his hair, and stumbled away.
“You’ve made a conquest,” Liam remarked on a note of light humour.
She laughed, making a depreciating gesture.
He took the lid off his plate — cold beef slices, crispy golden chips, and a couple of grilled mushrooms. “Perfect.” He picked up his knife and fork, and tucked in hungrily.
Annabel sipped her wine. “Your mum showed me the photos you sent. Such sweet little foals.”
“They are.” He grinned. “Makes it all worthwhile.”
“What are their names?”
“The little roan with the white blaze will be Chester. The other two don’t have names yet.”
“Chester — that’s a nice name.”
He ate in silence for a while — you really couldn’t have a serious conversation while you were eating chips. At last he set the plate aside and picked up his coffee, taking a moment to gather his thoughts.
“Annabel, look . . . I’m sorry, but . . . this just isn’t working — you and me.”
“I know.”
He glanced across the table at her. “You know?”
She smiled a little crookedly. “I think I knew from the start that it wasn’t going to go anywhere. We aren’t right for each other — we have absolutely nothing in common.”
Relief flooded through him — and gratitude that she was making it so easy. “I’m sorry.”
